Young Merlin Series
by EchoRose480
Summary: What would the story be like, how would the relationships evolve, the plot thicken, if Merlin were thirteen years old, a decade younger than everyone else? Here is a series of one or two shots, little stories detailing an answer. Will contain much fluffiness, humor, and even angst and whump. :D Brotherly love! Protective everybody! No slash! Ratings will range from K to T.
1. A Bit of a Brawl

A/N: I felt like writing more young Merlin. :) And, with the encouragement from you guys, decided to start this series of one shots. In all of these, Merlin will be 13, unless I make an exception. X) Hope you like em!

BTW: this is probably going to be updated rather irregularly, considering my schedule and other stories, so, yup! Fair warning. ;)

BTW#2: None of these will contain any slash. But, there will be fluff, and bromance, and protectiveness, etc. :)

...

"Agility, Merlin! You're stiff as a post," Arthur's practice sword collided with his manservant's. Merlin's whole arm wobbled under the blow, and the sword slipped from his fingers, landing in the dirt with a dull thump. He cradled his arms against his chest and glared at Arthur from underneath his helmet. Arthur just smirked in return.

Merlin didn't break his gaze away as he bent over to retrieve his weapon, and Arthur's smile never wavered. The boy straightened, holding the sword somewhat awkwardly in one hand as he readjusted the straps holding his makeshift breastplate in place.

He lolled his neck from side to side, and then spread his legs apart, before giving a sharp nod.

Arthur did not hesitate, and rushed him, sword raised high as he bellowed. Merlin just managed to block the heavy handed attack, but still stumbled backward, and Arthur laughed,

"I told you, you need to move. Always be in constant motion, lithe and quick. Focus just as much on what your own body's doing as well as mine,"

The sparring continued, Arthur with the upper hand throughout. Merlin seemed to be growing increasingly frustrated, and exhausted. He just barely managed to defend himself against Arthur's attacks, occasionally faltering and gaining what Arthur knew would be very many nasty bumps, later. His breathing grew heavier, his movements more and more sluggish by the second.

Eventually, they found themselves in a lock, swords pressed together, and chests close to touching as they glared at each other through their visors,

"Come on, _Mer_lin!" Arthur goaded, thoroughly enjoying himself, "A little more effort on your part and I might even break a sweat!"

Merlin roared in fury as Arthur shoved him backward, and, once he regained his footing, grabbed his helmet and yanked it off. He tossed it to the side, and snarled at his king. Strands of black, drenched hair stuck to his flushed forehead and cheeks, and Arthur's grin only widened at the sight of the angry fire in his eyes.

"You want something more? You want it, you got it!"

Merlin sprinted forward, letting out a youthful, but powerful battle cry with his sword held in both hands at his side. Arthur casually raised his own weapon in retaliation, but was caught off guard as Merlin didn't swing his own. At the last second, as he came upon his king, Merlin thrust his sword to the dirt and tackled Arthur's knees.

Arthur cried out as he fell to the ground, and Merlin scrambled to his feet, breathless and smiling in a very self-satisfied way.

"There, now we're eve-Wah!"

Arthur had grabbed Merlin by the ankle, and yanked so that he flailed and fell on his back. Arthur pounced on top of him, and fought to pin him down as he squirmed and protested. Merlin stubbornly refused to give up, and he somehow managed to roll them over, staying on top for about a second before Arthur did the same.

Arthur found himself laughing heartily as he continued to wrestle with his manservant. They shoved and grappled, shouting insults at each other between their grunts and laughter,

"Oww! You pulled my ear!"

"Well, what do you expect…? They're a rather obvious target. Hey! No biting!"

Eventually, Arthur found himself on top, Merlin stuck beneath him, wriggling and red-faced as Arthur just sat with his arms folded,

"Do you yield?" Merlin was caught somewhere between giggling and growling,

"Never!" he gasped out after a moment. Arthur just shrugged, and with a devious chuckle brought right hand up, and curled the fingers into a claw like shape. The blood drained from Merlin's face, and he began shaking his head rapidly,

"No, Arthur, no!" Arthur waggled his eyebrows and flexed his hand, then began lowering it slowly,

"Arthur. I'm serious, stop! No, no, no, no, no, no," Arthur's hand gained inches towards Merlin's torso, a soft spot just underneath his ribs. Merlin began convulsing and scrabbling this way and that. Finding no escape he turned towards Arthur with wide eyes, mouth set in a firm, white line,

"Don't. You. Dare,"

Nevertheless, Arthur's hand made contact, and he gave one small, decisive squeeze. Merlin's breath caught, and Arthur fancied he heard a small whimper from somewhere in the back of his throat.

And then, Arthur began squeezing and pinching, dancing his fingertips across his manservant's torso. Merlin was sent into hysterical, desperate peals of laughter as his back arched in response. He kicked and squealed shrilly, and Arthur shook with waves of triumphant cackles, well aware he was drunk with power and not caring.

"Arthur!" Merlin begged, looking close to tears as he struggled to speak through his giggles, "Please, please, I can't…I can't take it anymore!" he wheezed and weakly slapped at Arthur's hands, "Please," he choked out. Arthur rolled his eyes and sighed, pulling back with reluctance, and stepping off his manservant. He towered over him, hands on his hips as he watched Merlin slowly recover.

The boy had curled up into something of a fetal position, and tried to catch his breath as he chuckled and gasped. His face slowly returned to a normal color, and he wobbled to a sitting position, and then to a standing one.

He turned to Arthur, trying for an upset glare, but failing as he couldn't keep his mouth from twitching, or his eyes from gleaming.

Arthur reached forward and ruffled his hair affectionately. Merlin ducked away and ran his hands through it in an effort to fix the damage, but Arthur just snorted and inclined his head,

"Now, we're even," he said. He then spun around and began a light, bouncing gait towards the castle, "Come on! You have chores to do,"

He heard Merlin shuffling after him, and couldn't wipe the smirk off his face as they returned to the castle in the light of the setting sun. Merlin walked beside him, once giving Arthur a friendly shove, to which Arthur began to chase after him, spirits high with thoughts of a warm stew dinner and his plans for training the next morning.

...

A/N: Well, there ya go! :D Please tell me what you thought! This is much more...well, fluffy, than what I normally do. But I really like the thought of Arthur having a kind of older brother bond with Merlin. And, well, let's just say that I found the prospect of a 23, or so, King Arthur tickling a 13, or so, Merlin...well, I kind of got all ooey gooey inside. :3 Anyways, let me know if you liked it! I keep thinking of this plot line, and how all the relationships would be altered along with the story, if Merlin were thirteen. It would be intensely cutefied. :D I'm still bit-balling around and experimenting with this idea, so any prompts, suggestions, ideas are welcome!


	2. After the Fray

A/N: Next chapy. :D Hope you like!

Merlin: 13

...

Merlin stared at his hands, which rested against his knees, vision flickering in and out of focus so that at one moment the cuts and blood were defined with terrifying clarity, and the next were distorted and blurred as if from the tears he was trying so hard to fight.

Sounds were distant and muted. Urgent voices and the roar of flames, consuming the dry wood and hay of the barn as if starved. Merlin didn't look up, he didn't want to see it. The sight of the jagged orange fire lapping against the pale evening sky, the billowing, black smoke hiding what precious few stars there were from sight.

Merlin bit his lip against another fresh wave of pain, so hard, the taste of blood filled his mouth once again. He felt the warm, unabashed liquid trickle from the corner of his lips and down his chin.

His hands were trembling, marred with lacerations and burns. Blisters puckered the soft flesh beneath his fingers, his palms were red and raw.

He drew in a deep, shaky breath, but was unable to satisfy his smoke-filled lungs before he broke out into harsh coughing. Pain flared up and down his torso, scratched at his ravaged throat as he doubled over, pressing his face against the blessedly cool gravel.

The fit left him slowly, and beneath the pain he realized he'd hacked up some black, sticky substance. When he was finally able to gasp in a breath, it brought no relief, but only more agony as the icy, dry air pierced his damaged insides. Merlin curled up into himself, hugging his knees to his chest as he lay on his side. Everything burned and throbbed, his arms rubbing against his legs, his legs rubbing against his chest, his hands against his ankles. He knew he wasn't badly burned, but the pain was unbearable, telling him otherwise.

He knew he should consider himself lucky. Having gotten out. But he didn't. There was only guilt.

He clutched at his head, struggling against the rush of molten memories fighting to gain purchase in his groggy, horrified mind. But it was a losing battle. Images had been branded into his head, his soul. The flames surrounding him, growing faster than should have been possible from such a small spark. The pain as he screamed for help. His eyes, falling onto a bloodied, unconscious figure, trapped beneath a smoldering beam of wood, the lantern that the man had left unattended lying next to him. The panic Merlin felt as he'd tried to lift it for endless moments, but couldn't, not wanting to leave, not knowing if the man was still alive. And the fire kept growing. And the heat got worse. And Merlin was choking.

He ran. He left that man. He killed him.

Merlin whimpered, a sound that was choked and painful, escaping from his dried and bloody throat like a shard of glass. The cold pressed against him, the wind through his tattered, charred clothing stinging the burns and scrapes. He felt as if the whole first layer of his skin had been ripped away. Everything hurt. He pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth and tried to swallow, but failed. He licked his chapped and bleeding lips, but only made them hurt even more. His head throbbed behind his eyes, a solid lump of impenetrable guilt and self-hatred had formed in his stomach. He couldn't even cry. His eyes were too dry. So dry.

So hot.

When the hand touched Merlin's arm, so blessedly, harmlessly warm and reassuring against him, he couldn't help it. He broke down. Sobs tore through him, merciless and tearless, sending fresh shockwaves of agony through his body. But he couldn't stop. He didn't want to.

He was gathered up in someone's embrace. And Merlin, unable to even try and fight it, threw his arms around the burly shoulders. He buried his face in the rough-hewn cloth of the man's shirt against what must have been a massive chest. He dug his fingers into the man's shoulders, gripping the shirt like a lifeline as he let himself succumb to the pain and grief and guilt, the waning terror of a night that had brought only death.

"I-I…I l-left him…I c-c-couldn't…couldn't save…him," Merlin gasped deliriously through his heaving sobs, unable to stop the torrent of words pouring out of him, as if his body was no longer capable of containing the emotions, and had to purge itself.

Merlin was suddenly overcome by another attack. He was squeezed tighter by the enormous, but unbelievably gentle hands as his body shook and seized, expelling globs of black ooze from his lips. Merlin could taste the vile matter on his teeth, but had no energy to spit it out. He buried himself deeper into the man's shirt, wetting it with blood and black spit from his limp and tremulous lips.

"I killed…h-him," he rasped, almost to himself. But…

"No, Merlin,"

Merlin recognized the voice, something falling into place in the back of his mind, something that explained everything. Percival. Merlin didn't look up, ashamed, but curled his fingers tighter around the fabric of Percival's shirt, keeping his face hidden.

"You did the right thing," the knight continued, ever so slightly drawing Merlin in closer, so that the young warlock felt safe in the large, enveloping arms, and his twisted insides uncoiled enough that he exhaled slowly in a breathy whine, "There was nothing you could have done to save that man. You have done nothing wrong. Do you understand?"

The words were gentle, but firm. Holding nothing but the truth. Merlin would have protested, would have insisted he was right, but…

Percival never lied.

And Merlin was too weak. He didn't want to live with the belief he had left someone to die when he could have saved them. He didn't have the strength.

Merlin gathered just enough energy to nod, not knowing if Percival saw or noticed. But it had been enough. A small gesture to tell himself that everything was okay.

The guilt was still there. Like an open wound, but slowly knitting closed. Merlin knew in his mind that he had done no wrong, and someday, he would be able to convince his heart of that.

But for now, it was enough. He hid his eyes in the warm darkness of his large, protective friend, blocking out the world around him.

He fell asleep to the steady, thrumming sound of Percival's heart beat, and the hiss of water against the dying fire.

...

A/N: Review and tell me what you thought! :D I, personally, had a lot of fun writing this. Would you guys like me to make a second part, dealing more with the aftermath, and a bit of bromance? Just PM me if you were a bit confused about what happened. I left it rather vague on purpose, but am sure I could come up with a decent explanation to satisfy your curiosity. ;)


	3. After the Fray (Part 2)

A/N: Okay, as promised, the aftermath. :D Hope you like it!

...

Merlin was staring at his hands again.

They were bandaged now, glimpses of the red, inflamed skin peeking only through the slits in the wrapped fabric. They didn't hurt as much now, but felt strange and uncomfortable smeared in the ointment Gaius had administered.

Merlin didn't remember much of what happened the day before after he fell asleep in Percival's arms. Only, blurs of colors and concerned voices breaking through the haze of darkness and exhaustion. He could dimly recall pain, the kind that made him thrash weakly against the hands holding him down before something cool and wet calmed, and lessened it.

He supposed he should feel embarrassed. Normally, the egotistical aspects of his rising manhood would recoil fiercely at the thought of being carried through the castle, like some weeping infant. But, he wasn't. He didn't feel anything.

Somewhere hidden deep behind the thick layer of emptiness and apathy that Merlin had carefully established, he knew it was just a defense mechanism. He'd been this way since the fire, and he knew that Gaius was worried, but he couldn't bring himself to acknowledge reality. He remained adrift in oblivion, slipping in and out of that realm of consciousness where he remembered the flames licking and jumping at him, the man's blood smeared face in the light of the blaze. He knew that if he tried to confront it, tried to remember or come to terms with everything…he couldn't. He wouldn't.

The guilt hurt too much. It just hurt too much.

His eyes were glazed over and seemingly unseeing, staring at the far wall once again. He refused to let the images pass over them, refused to let them flicker with recognition or resignation. Every dangerous, painful emotion inside of him was locked tightly behind a vault of resistance. Merlin was nothing if not stubborn, and he would _not_ relent. No matter how much he knew that something had to give, he wouldn't let it.

He wouldn't let it.

"Merlin?"

He didn't look up. He knew that moving was like taking that last step over a cliff. The precipice of despair loomed before him, threatening to engulf him entirely and Merlin was too frightened to let it. He retreated inside.

He ignored the man as he stepped into Merlin's room, and closed the door behind him with barely a sound to fill the silence like tar in the air. Merlin's fist closed around the blanket over him, and he pressed his back farther into the pillow propping him up. He didn't want them to be there. They would try to make him remember, try to make him forgive.

"Merlin," the voice repeated. It was Arthur. Merlin felt his mask slip for just a moment, but quickly reconstructed it. Not Arthur. Anyone but Arthur.

Merlin wouldn't be able to fight those eyes. Those eyes that knew so much, yet so little. He hated those eyes. They would look straight into him, see everything and try so hard to fix it.

Merlin didn't reply, keeping his eyes glued to the far wall, but saw the flash of golden hair and red tunic to his side as Arthur sat on the bed, his lower back touching Merlin's legs, which still throbbed slightly, reminding Merlin of the nightmare. Reminding him of what he did.

A pressure against his knee. Merlin knew Arthur was touching him, trying to reassure. He couldn't stand it. He wanted him to stop.

Merlin glanced over for just a moment, against his will, flinching instinctively at the contact of Arthur's hand, but then glared at nothing again with newfound intensity. It was getting harder with each moment to keep from cracking. He could feel his resolve wavering, the dam holding back the pain was barely holding up.

"Merlin," Arthur said one last time his voice so full of authority that Merlin's eyes snapped to meet his eyes practically against his will. Arthur's brow was furrowed in soft concern, lines formed on his forehead and near his frowning mouth. His eyes, blue and unguarded, shone with sympathy and understanding. There was no accusation in those eyes. There was nothing but a silent plea. Nay, an order.

And Merlin had to obey.

His shoulders began to shake, his lip to quiver. Merlin pressed the heel of his hand against his right eye, the rough cloth digging into the still sensitive skin, and fought the lump beginning to form in his throat. Guilt overwhelmed every pore of his being, infiltrating every crevice of armor, seeping into his bones and making his heart feel heavy as a stone. A warm and broken sob tore through his throat, and Merlin sniffed right afterward, hoping that was it. But it wasn't.

The tears began to flow, etching damp tracks down his cheeks, but there were no cries this time, no gasps. They fell silently, and Merlin's mouth was a thin and quivering line. Arthur didn't try to hold him. This was different, somehow. This pain was different. This pain was…good.

When Arthur spoke, as rivulets of warm and salty water ran down Merlin's face and dripped from his chin to his bare and bandaged chest, he spoke without an edge, but with no softened blows, either,

"That fire was not your fault, Merlin. It was that man. The one who drank too much, and dropped that lantern. And he died, because of it," Merlin's stomach began to ache, he bit his bottom lip, and stared at the sheets through blurry vision, "It is not my place to say whether or not he deserved to die, that is only something God knows. Neither can I say that there was nothing you could have done to save him, because I was not there. But, I know your heart, Merlin. I know that if you thought you could save that man, that if you saw a way, you would have taken it. Of this, I will never have doubt. But, and you will come to know this, though it is hard for you to understand now, people will be hurt, despite your best efforts, all throughout your life. They will die, and suffer, and there will be nothing you can do. You saved the only life that you could in that fire, Merlin, and that was you. Don't _ever_ regret that. It is a dishonor to those who are left behind not to cherish the life you still possess. Live on, Merlin, that is all we can do. Live life fully, but don't take it lightly."

It might have been moments or minutes that passed, Merlin didn't know. But when the tears finally stopped, he was able to look at Arthur's eyes without a hint of shame. And Arthur stared right back, and his eyes were full of warmth and steel. For Merlin, the guilt was still there, and it would never leave, not completely.

But it was bearable now.

And Merlin would bear it.


	4. Air

**A/N: (_READ) _Hey guys! Here's the next chapter. :) Sorry for not updating in a while, but I promise, I have not been slacking on Young!Merlin. On the contrary, I am currently working on a full-length story that will be starring, guess who, 12 or so year old Merlin! :D It's gonna be pretty epic. Anyways, sorry for the wait, guys. Enjoy!**

* * *

...

He clawed at the hands clasped like a vice around his throat, but it was an impenetrable hold. His hands slipped uselessly against the callused, rigid knuckles, and the arteries bulging from the scarred flesh. Merlin's eyes fluttered open when the blow never came, and his mouth flew open to gasp, but nothing came out, only a horrible gagging sound as the pressure against his neck increased, not yet entirely cutting off his airflow. And the weight sitting atop his chest, crushing his lungs and causing his ribcage to bend dangerously, pushed downward even farther. Merlin felt his bones creak in protest, and the back of his head scrape against the rocky dirt. A yelp of pain rose in the back of his throat, but never came out. Instead his mouth yawned open in a silent cry, and a vein began to pulse at his temple.

"You little bastard," the voice of his assailant whispered, voice dripping with a guttural hatred that hit Merlin like a blow to the face. And it was somehow even worse than the ones which had been raining upon him for the past several minutes, leaving him reeling, disoriented and crying out in pain, pressed mercilessly against the harsh gravel of the alleyway where he lay sprawled, agonizingly helpless.

The red black fuzz obscuring his vision did nothing to staunch the flow of imagination streaming in, unwelcome, to his mind's eyes, urging Merlin to picture every feature of the boy on top of him. His name, Merlin recalled vaguely through the haze slyly beginning to creep into the stores of his conscious, was Horace.

He subconsciously equated the low, huffing breaths of Horace with that of a boar, which seemed oddly complimentary to what Merlin knew was a large, bulbous nose, and hairy extremities, all of which glistened with a thin sheen of sweat, a sheet of moisture present on the protruding tips of his ears and nose and lips, which curled into a lopsided, yellowy grin, beneath sunken, beady eyes.

"You think you can tell me what to do?" he continued, "You think you can embarrass me in front of everybody, and just get away with it?" Merlin choked on an unspoken response, that five or six of Horace's half-witted cronies was hardly _everybody_. But, judging by the red, infuriated state of the young man above him, it was probably for the better.

Merlin's mouth flapped open and closed as he struggled to make any kind of sound, convey some sort of sign that would convince Horace to release his hold on him. His chest began to burn with a desire for more oxygen, apart from the miniscule trickle fighting its way through Merlin's closed esophagus.

He felt the fear in his chest reach a new crescendo, tightening his insides to the point of physical pain, adding to what was already there. A whimper caught in his throat as Horace leaned forward, putting his mouth near Merlin's ear, and he grimaced at the hot, rank moisture of his breath.

"Think again," Horace growled. Merlin felt his weight shift, and the hold on his neck loosen infinitesimally, and for one moment he sucked in enough breath to clear his vision, enough so that he experienced the full breadth of horror at seeing Horace's snarl as he drove the weight of his knee as hard as he could into Merlin's ribs.

The only sounds that filled Merlin's head were that of the bone irrevocably, mercilessly _snapping_, and the scream that he was unable to physically expel, other than a soft gurgle of agony that might have been the beginnings of a sob, if it weren't for Horace's grip tightening once again. Red filled his vision all over, followed by a tidal wave of dizziness and nausea that caused hot, acid bile to rise up his throat.

And then, Merlin felt something in Horace change. In the way the boy's body tensed, the way the air and earth became stagnant in anticipation, the way his fingers retreated a fraction of a centimeter…

And suddenly came back in full force.

And Merlin realized with an unrepentant stab of absolute terror, he could no longer breathe at all.

He began flailing, clawing and swiping at Horace's hands and face and arms. He knew he was drawing blood but the grip did not cease. He kicked and thrashed, each collision with the hard dirt beneath him causing a shockwave of pain to emanate through his body. His neck was being squeezed so tight it felt as if his head would explode. Blood roared through his skull, buzzing with adrenaline and fear. The pain felt like a knife had been driven up underneath his ribcage. He was drowning in a black abyss of feral panic, cold as ice and sloshing through the hollow cavity of his chest, an all-encompassing, animalistic need to escape, to _breathe_.

He had never experienced this much agony in his entire life.

But what was even worse is when it all began to fade. The myriad of colors splotching his sight began to fade into a film of gray. The thoughts in his head became jumbled and distorted, the panic gripping him slunk into the black corners of his subconscious. All his senses fell into the background, becoming muffled and faint. The pain morphed into a throbbing, weak echo, as if from very far away. His heart, which had been pounding rapidly against his chest, beat erratically now.

A numbness spread over his body, a weakness that seeped into his bones. His arms and legs became sluggish in their movements, and Merlin distantly felt his ankles slap against the ground, and lay unmoving. His hands, one failing to push against Horace's face, the other wearily scratching at the taut muscles of his clenched palms, slipped and fell to the dirt. Merlin felt his strength leaking out of his body and into the earth.

His eyelids drooped downward over dim, flickering eyes, and the faint drum of his pulse became slower, and slower in his ears. His fingers twitched, upward toward the sky in a last effort…

And then were still.

* * *

**A/N: GASP! Is Merlin dead? Find out in the second part to this oneshot, which I will put up as soon as I can!**


	5. Air: Part 2

Arthur half-heartedly perused the collection of slightly aged vegetables, casting a surreptitious glance at the browning, curled edge of the leaves on one head of cabbage, where a fly was flauntingly rubbing its hind legs together, and buzzing excitedly, as if in preparation for the meal.

Arthur had decided that he wanted to surprise Gwen with a fresh, spring salad in honor of, well, of just the fact that he was hopelessly in love with her, and that she looked stunning when she smiled. Unfortunately, fresh produce was, apparently, in scant supply in this area of town.

"And, you're certain these are only a day old?" Arthur raised an eyebrow in the direction of the stall owner, a small, pudgy man who appeared to have little to no interest in his own personal hygiene. In fact, his tattered appearance and wrinkled, dirty face were oddly reminiscent of his merchandise.

"'Course!" the man replied, rubbing the back of his head and sniffing. His lips parted in a toothy grin, and Arthur fought not to grimace at the yellowy stubs, instead opting for a weak smile of his own, that ended up as more of a strained twitch at the corner of his lips.

"Princess!"

Arthur had long since given up on refusing to answer his unsolicited nickname, as Gwaine would only just take it upon himself to follow the king around, shouting it over and over until he finally relented and, often, resorted to tackling his knight.

He turned around to see the long-haired ruffian looking at him with a glint in his eyes, hands folded behind back in a show of false penitence. Arthur rolled his eyes and turned back to the vegetables, pretending he was still somewhat remotely interested in buying them,

"What do you want, Gwaine?" he said, then yelped as Gwaine suddenly materialized at his side, leaning backwards on his elbows against the cart, legs folded casually in front of him,

"Oh, nothing, really. I just thought, since you seem to have an afternoon to kill, and Leon appears to be in awful need of a haircut, we could…" he waggled his eyebrows and made an imploring sound.

Arthur turned to him with a disapproving look that Gwaine easily shrugged off as his eyes brightened at some point in the distance.

"Percy!" he cried happily, bounding toward the large knight, who eyed him impassively as he began rambling about some plan that involved paste and scissors, that Arthur tuned out so he could turn back to the vendor and politely excuse himself, much to the man's poorly concealed disgruntlement.

Arthur turned his back on the incoherent grumblings of the man and made to offer assistance to Percival, who was watching Gwaine flail animatedly as if he were some kind of demented, stray puppy.

But he was stopped by a sudden tight grip on his elbow. He reflexively pulled backward, but the hand became like a vice and he looked to see a young girl, no more than twelve or thirteen, staring up at him with wide, shining eyes and a trembling lip.

"Please, you must help him! Horace'll kill him, he'll-"

"Hey, hey, it's alright," Arthur soothed, bending over a bit so that they were at eye level. He gently pried her

hand off of him and touched her shoulder reassuringly,

"Who's going to hurt who?"

She took a deep breath and seemed to gather herself a bit, though Arthur could feel her shaking under his hand. He was vaguely aware of Percival and Gwaine approaching silently as the girl began to speak, obviously forcing herself to convey what she needed to calmly,

"It's that boy, Merlin," Arthur immediately tensed, and the girl reacted to this, her voice becoming far more frantic as fresh tears bloomed in her eyes, "Horace is the baker's son, and lives next to me. He's been looking at me a lot, lately, and trying to get my attention. I don't like the way he talks to me, and I've been doing pretty well handling him by myself."

Here, she bit her lip, and trembled harder, and Arthur placed another hand on her arm, trying to appear patient and understanding, though inside he silently urged to her to continue,

"But, yesterday was different. I wasn't answering him when he called my name, and before I knew it he was…touching me. He kept reaching for my hair, and I tried to get away, but Horace wouldn't leave me alone," she swallowed hard, and it looked painful, "But then, Merlin stepped in. He stopped Horace, called him a 'boar-faced bristlewort'. Some of the other villagers noticed I was in trouble, and rebuked Horace. He was so humiliated, looked at Merlin like he wanted to kill him."

Arthur nodded for her to go on, as a trickle of dread began snaking into his gut. He recalled yesterday evening. Merlin had practically stomped into his chambers, looking more than somewhat miffed, if not accompanied by a sense of grim satisfaction.

"This morning, I saw Merlin again. I tried to follow him, so I could thank him, but then I saw Horace...watching him. I hid, and as soon as Merlin turned the corner, Horace followed. He looked...oh, God, please, you have to help him!" as the girl reverted back into her earlier, despairing pleas, Arthur stood and spoke quickly,

"Where in town did this happen?"

"They were headed into the east side."

Arthur bit back a curse, knowing full well the nature of the sector's streets, with plenty of dark alcoves and alleyways.

"Come on," he announced over his shoulder to Gwaine and Percival, though there was really no need, the three of them already running towards the east side.

Arthur struggled to remain calm. He prayed that that fear in the girl's eyes had been the product of an overactive imagination and a bit of paranoia.

Otherwise, he feared what he would find.

….

They reached the east side in short time, and set out making quick work of the twisted myriad of narrow streets. Arthur inwardly raged at Merlin's choice of destination to run his errands.

However, through the state of cool collectedness Arthur had somehow managed to wrangle himself into, he somewhat remembered that this was the part of town Merlin had mentioned was where he found his favorite herbalist, whose small, compact household in the close-knit architecture of the sector was ideal for storing dried herbs.

The sun beat down from a burnished, afternoon sky, illuminating the dusty, rugged walls of the buildings, and the thick sheet of gravel covering every street.

His knees jarred in irritation as Arthur jogged, gazing into each alleyway he passed for signs of his young manservant. But there was neither raven hair, nor scrawny hide to be seen in the sparse shadow. He, Gwaine, and Percival had all split up to cover more ground, and Arthur had been working for what must have been several endless minutes, now.

All the while, the king fought to maintain a sense of calm as his search remained fruitless. Panic brimmed readily beneath the carefully manufactured layer of self-control, ready to take over at the slightest provocation.

Arthur hadn't thought to ask the girl how big this boy, Horace, was, but the look on her face, he loathed to consider, may have been enough to not need to. His thoughts drifted to Merlin as his eyes continued to scan the area, his hard breathing loud in his ears, working as a marker of time passing without the gangly boy by his side.

He thought of Merlin's long, gawky limbs, which were slightly disproportionate to his still pre-adolescent body. He was at least a head and half shorter than Arthur. At least. And he was so _skinny_.

Arthur grimaced, having a hard time imagining the idiot running away from a fight, even if he had no chance of winning.

Arthur was abruptly pulled from his thoughts by a sudden burst of muffled noise in the silence, which had previously been solely occupied by Arthur's rapid, thrumming pulse.

He skidded to a halt, arms flapping for a moment as he caught his balance, and held his breath, straining to hear. At first there was nothing, and Arthur felt his heart sink, thinking he had imagined it.

But there it was again! No words, just an angry voice, and a young one, at that. Arthur felt his breath quicken at the dangerous tone, recognizing true fury when he heard it.

Suddenly, Percival came barreling in from another street, sliding to a stop on the loose dirt, and turned to Arthur, chest heaving and eyes wide. They shared one look of understanding, and then began sprinting in the direction of the voice.

Arthur cursed after a few moments of complete silence and finding nothing. The panic was starting gain purchase, and it was all he could do not to scream in frustration. He frantically dashed into a curving back-alley that ran behind all the shops as a thin strip, with occasion sub-alleys branching off on the left. He glared hard into every one they passed, his pace and heart beat gaining in speed with every passing second. He felt an icy fear shoot up his spine as he began questioning. Had they already passed him, missed him, somehow? What if the girl had been wrong and they weren't even in the right part of the city? He was just beginning to feel utter hopelessness fuel the, now, freely flowing panic in his chest when he saw it.

Arthur almost completely fell over in his attempts at stopping so suddenly, but he didn't. He scrambled to a standstill, and peered into the alleyway, and had only a fraction of a split-second to absorb what he was seeing before its reality caught up with him. But somehow, it all came in with a terrible clarity. Perhaps, it was the horror of it all, but every detail sordidly invaded Arthur's mind with a stunning, terrifying definition.

A large figure was hunched over the sprawled form of his manservant. Merlin's eyes were virtual slits, his dark eyelashes brushing ashen cheeks. His lips were slightly parted and completely slack, tinged a stark blue against the abhorrent, grey-purple pallor of his skin. His legs were morbidly still, and disturbingly far apart, as if they had fallen in the midst of movement. Two hands were wrapped tightly around his neck, scuffed and marked with blood, not unlike the murderous, gruesome face of the boy they belonged to.

His arms lay limp, one at his side, and the other on his sickeningly unmoving chest.

Arthur would later attribute Percival's immediate action to his indomitable, methodical nature. But this theory was belied by the roar of rage that escaped the knight's mouth as he tackled Horace to the ground. The stocky boy wailed in anger as he was roughly pulled off his victim, and straddled in the dirt.

But, as it were, Arthur was only a half a step behind, having overcome the sudden shock of pure terror which had raged through him at the sight. He was instantly by Merlin's side, raising the young man's head and upper torso into his lap as his heart threatened to pound from his chest,

"Merlin!" he cried, watching desperately for the narrow chest to rise upward. He switched his gaze to Merlin's face, which was still horrifyingly like that of a corpse, and quickly placed his finger beneath the boy's nose. A cold lump formed in his throat as he felt no breath pass in or out. A sob broke through his chest, and his eyes began to sting hotly.

"Come on, Merlin," he ground out hoarsely through clenched teeth, fury and anguish coming off of him in waves. He pressed his fingers into the boy's jugular, where the sight of a puckering, swollen handprint caused bile to rise in his throat, but then felt hope flicker inside of him at the soft, fluttering pulse beneath his skin. But it wasn't enough. If Merlin didn't breathe soon, he would be gone.

Driven by this, Arthur quickly shifted, gently laying Merlin down in the dirt, ignoring the sounds of Horace's cries as Percival subdued him with a rope.

His hands hovered, shaking over Merlin's torso, opening and closing into tight fists as he fought to think of something.

What do I do? What do I do? Arthur thought over and over, not caring if the mantra were falling from his lips, as well.

An idea began to form in his mind, a beacon in the darkness of cold panic which had begun to completely take over his mind. Acting now on pure instinct alone, and a denial that was rooted in the very marrow of his bones, Arthur tilted Merlin's head back, and blew into his mouth.

Merlin's chest rose and fell artificially, but when Arthur pulled back, there was still no response. Not even daring to feel and see if the pulse was still there, Arthur tried again.

And again.

He was dimly aware of Percival watching him, having now tied up Horace, he looked on with what Arthur refused to believe were pitying, or hopeless eyes.

He tried again.

Nothing.

"Damn it, Merlin, you have to fight!" he roared, and after once again pushing air into his friend's lungs, pulled back and raised a fist. Instinct completely won over, and Arthur, not entirely purely out of anger, but also stemming from some feral belief that he could _beat _the life back into his manservant, drove a blow down onto the boy's chest.

Arthur's heart soared as Merlin's back arched and an agonizing cough broke through his throat. He seized and gasped in a huge, if somewhat strained breath. Arthur heard Percival sigh with relief, and was only barely able to contain his own elation as Merlin continued to cough and wheeze, eyes wide and veiled with confusion and fear. He cradled the boy's head, watching as the color began to eek back into his features.

But something was wrong. Agony passed over Merlin's face every time he breathed in. And each breath was thin and tortured and audibly forced, passing through a throat that was still closed. His skin was far too pale, and Arthur's eyes flicked back to the dark bruises marring the soft flesh of his neck.

Arthur frowned as the dread crept back into his stomach. Lifting one knee so he was kneeling, he slithered his hands beneath Merlin's trembling, seizing form, and struggled to stand. Hefting the weight in his arms, Arthur looked into Percival's concerned eyes,

"I'm taking him to Gaius," he announced, and with one look of disgust at the filth who had attacked Merlin, who was now curled up and restrained in the corner of the alleyway, raced into the street and towards the palace.

To Be Continued…

* * *

A/N: Well, there ya go! :D Chapter 3 will be up soon!


	6. Air: Part 3

Arthur cradled Merlin close to his chest as he ran, arms locked tightly around his shaking, convulsing frame,

"Hold on, kiddo. Hold on," he mumbled breathlessly, ramming clumsily through the streets towards the palace. His breath burned in his lungs, his gums ached acidly. He cast his eyes forward and refused to ruminate on the stuttering, halting pulse of the boy in his arms.

He staunchly ignored the curious gazes of spectators as he sprinted through the crowds. Instead, he focused every ounce of his energy on turning the earth to his movements, burning away at the ground as his legs pumped in a relentless cycle beneath him. Merlin's weight in his arms was insubstantial, but there was a fiery ache in his muscles, nonetheless. His heart drummed in his ears, dread fought for a foothold in his emotions, which were being smothered by a forced calm.

Finally, the courtyard came into view. He skidded forward onto the scantly populated cobblestone, panting and sweating. His eyes alighted upon the steps, and he began swiftly jogging upward.

He blinked rapidly as he reentered the relative shade of the palace. Subconsciously, he started making his way through the hallways, taking the most direct routes in favor of the emptier ones.

Servants yelped and narrowly missed a head on collision as Arthur sped through the hallways, gaze riveted on the next turn, the next set of steps, the next archway. Merlin continued to cough and wheeze, panicked, in his arms, sounding as if he were hardly managing to grasp any air at all.

It was when Arthur began jogging up the last staircase, limbs _on fire_ with exertion, that Merlin's jerking movements began to slow. Arthur's eyes travelled downward in terror, his heart plummeting to his stomach at the sight of Merlin's hand, before grasped around his own throat, begin to loosen. His eyes, which had been glazed in panic and incoherency, settled to a standstill and slowly rolled back into his skull. His hand slipped and dangled at his side-

"No."

His head lolled backward-

"No, no."

His body stiffened, then relaxed-

"_Merlin_!"

It shouldn't have been possible, but Arthur's speed increased to an even higher rate. He no longer fought the fear, he let it fuel every sinew of every muscle, he let it leak into his heart, causing it to pump viciously in a climactic peak of endurance. It carried him to the top of the steps, and he burst through the door,

"GAIUS!" Arthur screamed as the wood slammed and _cracked_ against the inner wall. The robed physician only wasted a second in raising his head to stare in shock and bewilderment, before his face set in a stony mask.

"Lay him down," he ordered, reaching the king just as he lay Merlin's limp form onto the cot. The boy's arm fell uselessly off the side and swayed back and forth. His eyes didn't even flutter.

"He's not breathing. S-someone…" Arthur couldn't finish the sentence. But he didn't have to. Gaius went straight to work. He scuttled around for what felt like forever, but what must have been in actuality, more like five seconds. All the while, Arthur's eyes remained plastered on his servant's face, incredulous at the strange, unearthly colorlessness to his skin.

"Sire," Gaius said, stepping forward, "You must hold his head still."

Arthur hesitated for just one moment, a strange fear of touching his manservant, that it would only make it worse, holding him back. But he shook it off quickly, and firmly pressed one palm against either side of Merlin's forehead, choosing not to think about how cold it was.

He looked up to see what Gaius was doing, but only felt a flash of horror as the old man steadily pressed a small blade deep into the soft flesh at the base of Merlin's throat. It immediately welled with red, and Arthur had to turn away, biting back a wave of sick and reminding himself that this was what would make Merlin better. Gaius would make him better.

Almost immediately afterward, Gaius gingerly inserted a pliable, leather tube into the hole he'd made, and a small sucking sound could be heard as air began passing through. Arthur's heart shriveled with relief, and he forced himself to sit down on the bench nearby before his knees gave out, or the sudden dizziness he felt caused him to keel over. He kept his hand resolutely on Merlin's forehead, and watched with fascination and unbelievable happiness as some of the color began returning to his cheeks.

He didn't know how they were going to get that tube out of him, or when. But frankly, he couldn't have cared less. Merlin was breathing beneath his touch and that was all that mattered.

Gaius swiped the back of his hand across his forehead, and Arthur noticed with a cursory glance that it was trembling slightly. He did not remark on it. The old man's eyes were alight and brimming with relief, and a weary smile graced his lips as he turned to the young, shaken king,

"Thank you, sire," he said.

Arthur shook his head,

"No, thank you," he replied, and meant it with every bone in his body. Gaius returned his look, and nodded silently. Both of their eyes returned to the boy between them, and Arthur once again had to restrain himself from laughing giddily in absolute relief. He settled instead for standing and pacing, eyes still locked on his manservant's face.

Suddenly, two figures came barreling into the room. Gwaine's eyes were wild, and his hair fell in a scraggly, sweaty mess over them as he roved his gaze about the room, finally landing on the young boy on the patient cot. He bounded forward, took one, intense look at Merlin's steadily rising chest, and fell backwards with a loud sigh into the chair behind him, slumping down into the seat and rubbing his face with his palms,

"Good God," he mumbled, and Arthur smiled in agreement. Percival was right behind him, if not a great deal calmer. He lay one hand on Merlin's shoulder and stared steadily into his face, then nodded in approval, and stepped backward, crossing his arms and appearing nor more or less than satisfied. Arthur could see an underlying joy in the backs of his eyes, though, and knight's lips were quirking upward in a suppressed display of mirth.

None of them said anything; the room was silent apart from Merlin's even, if shallow, breaths. Arthur slowly sat back down, and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He reached forward with one hand, and grasped Merlin's hanging wrist. He pressed against the arteries, and reveled in the unwavering pulse tapping against his fingertips. With his thumb, he subconsciously rubbed Merlin's calloused palm. All the sudden, his hand seemed so small in Arthur's, and the young king's grip tightened. His mind flashed inexorably towards the hulking adolescent presently being carted away to the dungeons, and scowled at decisions he would have to make later.

But for now, he simply felt Merlin's pulse, and listened to him breathe.

He stayed that way for a long time.

...

A/N: I don't like this chapter. X( Feels blech to me. :/ Corny. But anyways, I **know that this type of surgical procedure was not existent in the middle ages**. But rest assured, I put it in here, simply because I don't care. X) It's Fanfiction, I can do what I want! So, yeah, drop a review if you like, and I know all you good people out there will ;) And tell me what you thought!


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